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Updated: June 12, 2025
A scant two years before she had wondered if she would ever reach a pinnacle of success lofty enough to enable her to wear blue tailor suits as smart as the well-cut garments worn by her mother's friend, Mrs. Emma McChesney. Mrs. McChesney's trig little suits had cost fifty dollars, and had looked sixty. Fanny's now cost one hundred and twenty-five, and looked one hundred and twenty-five.
The little sallow, dark man just at Meyers' elbow was gazing at her unguardedly. She felt that he had appraised her from hat to heels. Ed Meyers placed a plump hand on the little man's shoulder. "Abe, you tell the lady what I was saying. This is Mr. Abel Fromkin, maker of the Fromkin Form-Fit Skirt. Abe, this is the wonderful Mrs. McChesney." "Sorry I can't wait to hear what you've said of me.
"Emma McChesney?... Kate Nevins.... Who's responsible for the collar on those Featherloom shirts?... I was sure of it.... No regular designer could cut a collar like that. Takes a genius.... H'm?... Well, I mean it. I'm going to write to Washington and have 'em vote you a distinguished service medal.
Emma McChesney, Mrs. She had to climb over the feet of a fat man in brown and a lean man in black, to do it. Long practise had made her perfect in the art. She knew that the fat man and the thin man were hogging the end seats so that they could be the first to register and get a choice of rooms when the 'bus reached the hotel.
I can tell by the way Annie's crashing the cups. So step lively if you want to pay your lovely mother's subway fare." Ten minutes later the slim young figure, in its English-fitting black and white, sat opposite Emma McChesney at the breakfast table and between excited gulps of coffee outlined a meteoric career in his chosen field.
"Mother," Jock broke out hotly, "why in the name of all that's foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah! People don't sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men to jolly up the trade." "Jock," repeated Emma McChesney slowly, "where shall we lunch?" It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence.
"Davy," said he, "we are to live here for a while, you and I. What do you think of our headquarters?" He did not wait for me to reply, but continued, "Can you suggest any improvement?" "You will be needing a soldier to be on guard in front, sir," said I. "Ah," said the Colonel, "McChesney is too valuable a man. I am sending him with Captain Bowman to take Cahokia." "Would you have Terence, sir?"
McChesney, dictation was a joy. She knew what she wanted to say and she always said it. The words she used were short, clean-cut, meaningful Anglo-Saxon words. She never used received when she could use got. Hers was the rapid-fire-gun method, each word sharp, well timed, efficient. Imagine, then, Hortense staring wide-eyed and puzzled at a floundering, hesitating, absent-minded Mrs.
You know he said we were criticising their copy the way a plumber would criticise the Parthenon so busy finding fault with the lack of drains that we failed to see the beauty of the architecture." "T.A.," said Emma McChesney solemnly, "T.A., we're getting old." "Old! You! I! Ha!" "You may 'Ha! all you like. But do you know what they thought of us in there?
You see, Jock, I've loved you so long and so well that I know your faults as well as your virtues; and I love you, not in spite of them but because of them. "Oh, I don't know," interrupted Jock, with some warmth, "I'm not perfect, but a fellow " "Perfect! Jock McChesney, when I think of Grace's feelings when she discovers that you never close a closet door!
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